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volume 2 | issue 6
contents
northern canada collective society for writers
2
editorial
Russell Thomas
president Suzanne McGladdery
3
community report
Kiran Malik-Khan
treasurer Joanne Hlina
4
can't catch a break
Jenny Berube
6
broken dreams
Candice Felker
public relations director Kiran Malik-Khan
6
a still shock
Veronica Ephgrave
6
it's okay
Veronica Ephgrave
7
one of those days
Veronica Ephgrave
8
invite surprise
Erin Stinson
9
stepping from the path
Cathy Yard
12
kindred spirits
Sherry Duncan
14
window waiting
Dawn Booth
15
the wilderness bewilderment
Kevin Thornton
16
surprising
Kiran Malik-Khan
16
wood buffalo winterland surprise
Dave Martin
18
marginalia: a column
Douglas Abel
20
contributors
22
it will happen to you
e-mail northwordmagazine@gmail.com
This Issue: Volume 2, Number 6 Winter 2015 ISSN 1920-6313 cover Erin Stinson design & layout Rachel White-Murray issue editor Russell Thomas managing editor Jane Jacques president emerita Jennifer Hemstock
Proudly published in Fort McMurray, Alberta, Canada 56°44’N | 111°07’W
Candice Felker
1
northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
editorial
i’ve always been fascinated with the notion of surprise, those things in life that
catch us off guard and send our pulse racing, mind searching, and senses stirring.
Wood Buffalo has been a place of many surprises in the 18 years that I’ve lived here: unexpected opportunities, startling life changes, moments of unmitigated mystery and intrigue, and blasts of brilliance and beauty when I least expected them.
This outstanding collection of creative works explores this theme in ways that are, oh
so appropriately, surprising. Erin Stinson’s painting on the cover perfectly captures the
energy and wonder of the exact second of positive surprise, a combination of colour, unexpected patterns, movement, excitement and awe.
A sub-theme is very present related to the passing of time and the inherent reality that the future is, by its very nature, unpredictable. Douglas Abel returns to old stomping grounds in England with “Marginalia: Surprised by Time” and discovers that his memory of the place is very different than the place that is there today.
“And yet, as I sat in the train back to Kensington, I longed for a place that no longer existed, except in my memory,” he writes. “A private, past little world. And I was finally surprised by how strongly, if unconsciously, I had clung to what that world had been.”
There are a number of pieces that zero in on surprises, both real and imagined, in this
northern place. From Woodland Caribou flying through the Birchwood Trails in Dave Martin’s “Wood Buffalo Winterland Surprise” to the cool PI Sams Padé, the Holmes of the Inuit in “The Wilderness Bewilderment” by Kevin Thornton, we are treated to two
playful poems that scream to be read aloud. “Stepping from the Path” by Cathy Yard takes us into the rough on MacDonald Island and may inspire pause the next time you slice your golf ball into the woods.
As death and taxes, surprise is inevitable. “It will happen to you” by Candice Felker
reminds us that things, good and bad, are going to jump out from some hidden life curve. Joyful jumps
Sooner or later,
Ocean of relief,
You won’t be ready,
Or volcanic tears.
This will happen to you.
Or tornado of fears.
There’s nothing you can do.
I am enamored by the challenge offered by Erin Stinson to
Leap
surrender
discover
embrace
Invite surprise.
allow
Enjoy this edition of NorthWord and the talents and imaginings of its contributors. 2
Russell Thomas |
twelfth issue editor
volume 2 | issue 6
community report
by kiran malik-khan Public Relations Director
celebrating our fifth anniversary and #gameon for northword It’s been a milestone year for NorthWord. We’ve been
“NorthWord magazine is a treasure. We appreciate what
now—and from 300 copies to 1000, we are growing.
also the Minister of Innovation and Advanced Education.
serving Wood Buffalo as its literary voice for five years
Thanks to the support of all of you—our writers, poets, artists, donors, advertisers, sponsors, and volunteers—it’s been a wondrous journey.
We are proud to announce our collaboration with Western Canada Summer Games 2015 Wood Buffalo to produce the #GameOn issue. Wood Buffalo will host over 14,000
guests in our region from August 7 to 16, 2015. The 10-day
exciting event will include 2500 athletes competing in
18 sports. And, each one of these potential ambassadors will receive a copy of Issue #13—featuring the theme of
#GameOn. The deadline for submissions, which don’t necessarily have to be sports-oriented, is April 7, 2015. We
this publication means to the region,” said MLA Don Scott, A balloon-popping invitation to “surprise” (Issue #11’s
theme) writing prompts started off the poetry competi-
tion, which featured children, youth, and adult categories, followed by poetry readings by local writers and poets. MLA Mike Allen helped announce the winners.
And, speaking of winners, don’t forget to send us those
#GameOn submissions. Short stories or excerpts from
current projects, fiction or non-fiction (3000 words
maximum), verse of no more than 50 lines, along with anything surprising, original, or inventive can be submitted to the editors at northword@hushmail.com.
look forward to featuring beautiful poetry, prose, art, and
NorthWord is available free of charge at the Keyano Col-
the theme.
Library, Frames and More, and the Thickwood YMCA.
photos from our region and beyond—complementing
lege Bookstore, Keyano Reception (front desk), Keyano Like us on Facebook: www.facebook.com/northword and follow us on Twitter: @NorthWordYMM.
The Regional Municipality of Wood Buffalo has always
been a great NorthWord supporter, and we are grateful to them for their continued support. And, to the Games com-
mittee for seeing the value in producing the #GameOn issue.
Back to our fifth anniversary, which also saw the launch of Issue #11. We hosted the event on September 27, 2014 in
conjunction with Alberta Arts Days at the Keyano Art Gal-
lery. MLAs Don Scott, and Mike Allen were in attendance, and said kind words about the publication.
MLA Mike Allen with the winners of the poetry contest - youth category who received Coles gift cards.
3
northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
can’t catch a break jenny berube
The problem with ransom notes is too much CSI. The
police can probably tell what magazines or newspapers, what type of scissors you used, even if you were left handed.
This was not going to be easy, but it had to be done, given the wealth of Betty Bunstable and the love she had for Mr. Tibbs.
And speak of the devil, as the saying goes, so Andrea returned to the kitchen to answer the querulous voice. He didn’t like the tuna delight of course, so Andrea chopped
up chicken and put it before him. And he wasn’t sure he liked that either. She added a small dash of olive oil and
stirred it. He consented to eat that, squatting down, his tail swishing slowly.
The insistent ringing of the bell. Andrea raced up the stairs, smiling as she entered the room, “Yes, Mrs. Bunstable. What can I do for you?”
She smiled as she labored her way through her day, smiled through the insults, and the mess and the pet-
ulance and the irritations. “Yes, Mrs. Bunstable … right now Mrs. Bunstable.”
Tomorrow she would be free. And she smiled as she opened the door for Mr. Tibbs, and
opened it again. And fed him, and filled his water dish, and found his bell-toy and opened the door again.
She even smiled while cleaning his litter box, and the hairball from under the kitchen table.
Tomorrow she would have some money, and she would be free.
It was after midnight before Mrs. Bunstable was asleep, snoring raspily, her glasses still on, the book open beside her. Andrea tidied up the room, and turned off the light.
4
Tomorrow she would be free. Usually not a morning person, Andrea was awake before
the alarm. She hurried through dressing, and was in
the kitchen warming milk for Mr Tibbs while prepar-
ing breakfast for Mrs. Bunstable. Two boiled eggs (three minutes exactly from a boil), two pieces of toast, cut into finger slices (no, not underdone, overdone nor too dry, too soggy), a hot (hot, not scalding, and certainly not
tepid) cup of tea, a peeled and segmented orange (make sure it’s not sour nor dry) and finally, a small dish of cottage cheese with a teaspoon of marmalade.
Mrs. Bunstable was awake, reading some papers when Andrea opened the door after the perfunctory tap.
“Here’s your breakfast,” she said cheerily, putting the tray on the bed table and moving it into position. “Would you like me to raise the head of your bed a little more?”
Mrs. Bunstable peered over her glasses, “Of course!” She
put the papers beside her on the bed, face down. “I can hardly eat properly unless you help me sit up! Really! I don’t know why you need to ask such stupid questions.”
Andrea smiled an apology and picked up the control, easing the head to the appropriate angle, refusing even
to think that Mrs. Bunstable used the remote quite easily herself unless Andrea was around.
“A little more,” the whine barely noticeable. Andrea obliged before moving behind her employer and adjusting pillows gently.
“That’ll do. Please crack the eggs now.” Mrs. Bunstable liked to have the top taken off the egg and dip toast fingers into the runny yolk. Andrea used
that time to tidy up, picking up tissues and candy wrap-
pers and tossing them into the bin. She always felt a little queasy if she watched Mrs. Bunstable eat. When
volume 2 | issue 6
there was no more yolk, Andrea helped Mrs. Bunstable
When Andrea returned from her daily shopping trip just
and setting up egg number two.
tic, dropped (maybe she did manage to break the eggs)
spoon out the white before removing the empty shell Since today was Thursday, there was no bath scheduled,
after eleven, she pulled the ransom note out of the plasthe groceries on the floor, and ran up the stairs, crying.
which Andrea appreciated. Not that Mrs. Bunstable was
Burst into the room, “oh Mrs. Bunstable, look! They have
weighed did require effort to get her out of the wheel
sand dollars. Oh, oh… how dread…”
very big, but even so, the hundred and forty pounds she chair and through the opening of the modified bathunit and onto the seat. Today, however, all Andrea had
stolen Mr. Tibbs… and they want three-hundred thouAnd stopped in surprise.
to carry was the bowl of warm (tested with an elbow)
Mrs. Bunstable had company: her lawyer, Snabines…
help Mrs. Bunstable with her birdie bath.
crying while showing the note to her employer. “What
water, towels, bath oil, soap and lotions to the bed, and Finally, Mrs. Bunstable was dressed, sitting in her day chair, her shawl around her, requesting that Mr Tibbs be
brought up for his morning visit, while “you vacuum the downstairs.”
Mr Tibbs wasn’t a big fan of being carried upstairs and Andrea wore several scratches as souvenirs of his
objections. Today, she bribed him with a little beef and deposited him on the cushion on the ottoman beside the
day chair without adding to her collection of claw marks. “Thank you,” said Mrs. Bunstable, extending a thin hand to the Burmese.
When the vacuuming and dishes were all done, Andrea
went upstairs with fresh teapot, muffins and fruit salad. Mrs. Bunstable seemed distracted, looking through her
papers, making sure Andrea couldn’t see what was written, and shooing her and Mr. Tibbs out.
“He can stay downstairs while you go shopping. Just
make sure he has access to the cat-door! And make sure
something, whatever. But Andrea managed to keep are we going to do? Oh poor Mr. Tibbs!”
Mrs. Bunstable gasped, made to speak, and gasped once more.
The EMTs said that there was no hope, such a pity really, but her heart must have given out on the shock.
Shock! Andrea nodded dumbly. She did understand about shock. Her heart had almost given out also.
Oh, no, not at seeing Mrs. Bunstable take her last breath, and not even at the knowledge that now there would be
no ransom. She had managed to deal with that. It was hearing what the lawyer had to say.
And he spoke with such kind sympathy. “It is such a shame, Miss Andrea. She was just dictating her will to me. It certainly was a surprise to me. Not valid
now of course, but she had decided to leave all five mil-
lion to you, on the condition you would look after Mr. Tibbs.”
the oranges aren’t bitter. The one this morning was barely edible.”
5
northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
broken dreams candice felker Awaken to the shock;
You have one day to live.
Metaphorically speaking. You’re in denial of the truth. You stare at yourself,
Eyes bright with darkness, A dark blue center,
The earth’s ocean swallows you up! It’s over,
Dreams flatline.... You didn't do what you meant.
a still shock veronica ephgrave A Free Verse Stanza
You didn't live what you wanted.
One should never be in surprise
Life wasn't what you imagined.
And there is no consistency
Surprise!
For life is ever changing, To solidify one’s stance;
Stand firm. To be surprised is To fall from reality
Into a blank, still shock..
it’s okay
veronica ephgrave A set of Haikus Surprise it would be
But I don’t expect
Never feel too bad
I just wait and hope
Loved me the same way.
So it is okay.
I never took mind.
But, I’d be surprised.
If I were to find that you
6
You to hold that emotion
That you could never relate
For immense revelation,
volume 2 | issue 6
one of those days veronica ephgrave
I would have described it as one of the worst days I had had in a very long time.
Most people would casually dismiss the day with a statement such as, “Oh, it’s just one of those days.” But I wouldn’t. Not quite; this day would have labeled the imp
of those days, the day where everything simply goes wrong. It was the kind of day where one wakes up to a kitchen with a broken dishwasher full of dirty dishes,
the day where one drives home, sitting in the car wearing a white blouse with a
huge day-old coffee stain on it. Even worse, for me, it was a day of demotion; which was the product of an odd equation that involved being at the wrong place at the wrong time, incidents that aren’t related to any of my own actions and backstabbing. Office politics are pathetic.
I arrived at my apartment building and skipped the stairs to take the elevator. I
already felt tired at the idea of doing dishes. My boyfriend might be there, but he would probably be asleep, since he was assigned to the night shift that evening. Disappointing expectations whirled around my head as I staggered up to my
fifth-floor apartment. I opened the door and, momentarily, the fog of my thoughts dissipated. The dishwasher was opened, and revealed to be dish free. And my boy-
friend sat at the table, wide awake and seemingly awaiting for me to arrive home.
He smiled when I walked in. “Babe… how was your day?” He looked so relaxed. I all of a sudden felt piteous at the possibility of my crappy attitude ruining his elated
mood. “It… wasn’t that great… I’ll talk in a sec, I need to change…” I noticed his face fall slightly as I went to get a new shirt.
He came into the room as I put my clean shirt on. He then wrapped his arms around my waist and whispered, “Don’t feel bad…”
“I don’t… Thank you for doing the dishes.” I replied as I turned to face him. “It gets
better.” He told me, and gave me a kiss. Immediately, the tension I had been experi-
encing only minutes before began to calm. He grasped my hand, but I was shocked
to find he let go of my hand and left something small in its place. I opened my eyes to take a look at my hand, only to see a small ring. There weren’t any jewels on it,
no diamonds; it was a simple gold band. But its appearance was irrelevant to me. I
looked up at him. “You know what that means.” He said to me, and all I managed to utter was a simple “Yes…” as I was thrown into strong embrace.
I found myself satisfied by his surprise gift, and decided that maybe today hadn’t been too bad after all.
7
northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
invite surprise erin stinson
Carefully laid plans
each move calculated
a risk assessment for every step. Nothing out of place
comfort in the predictable. I’ve been there before
Leap
surrender discover
embrace allow
Invite surprise.
fear I will be there once more
I hear you
implore you
It may not be what you thought you wanted
I urge you
look beyond the safety of what is known. In that unknown place monotony dullness
colourless existence is no more. It is not safe. It will be free. What will it take fear-filled one
abandon composure awaken curiosity
allow derailment. Try
for a moment
expect things unusual unordinary
extraordinary. Revel
awestruck.
fear-filled one
where you wanted to go what you expected. But
what if it ended up as so much more Beauty you could not have foreseen
with those meticulously charted plans
a plan bigger than your comprehension
splendor and disaster all worked together. Silence the voices promoting fear
chained to expectations ought
should Be brave
grit your teeth if you have to close your eyes Leap
Surrender
Discover
Embrace Allow
Invite surprise For life’s sake.
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volume 2 | issue 6
stepping from the path cathy yard
I step back as far as politeness allows, and attempt to force my face muscles into a smile. My teeth hurt—it’s been a long afternoon, slightly nauseous from the night before; two parallel white lines floating above the darkness of the glass-topped coffee
table, the rush tempered by tequila gulps. Rather be anywhere than here. I hate golf; this forsaken course, soggy and mosquito infested; the old man standing in front of me lining up his shot, grizzled jaw always in motion. I pretend to be engrossed in the inspection of the club in my hand; I know what I’d like to do with it.
“Ya see, son, just like the pros. No better golf course than the Miskanaw. Did I ever tell ya…” the whistle of the ball slices his voice but not his triumphant grin, “about the
time I beat Derlago.” Myron marches towards me, all plaid on plaid—a fashion suicide. Hitches his pants and I can see he’s going to start up again, how last year he golfed
with the NHL Legends, ole Bryan T and Gary Leeman, to name a few. Five endless hours
of this monologue; if I wasn’t married to his granddaughter I would have braved the icy waters of the Athabasca just to escape his voice, a monotone capable of putting a class of attention deficit eight-year-olds to sleep.
I want to like him, I really do. He’s just an old man trying too hard. An old man who doesn’t realize the world has moved on. His sparse hair, long and stringy, valiantly tries
to cover his liver-spotted scalp and his hands shake as he pulls out his tobacco pouch
and papers from a shirt pocket. Oddly, the shaking stills as with one practiced hand he gracefully fills the tissue scrap, and with a flourish licks the edge, rolling one final time to seal the golden strands. In this movement I see his young self, cocky and sure, his life filled with endless possibilities and old age hazy beyond the next horizon. “Yer up. And don’t…” I push the tee into the grass, seat the ball and stand ignoring the words percolating behind me. The shaft is high over my shoulder and tension zings from my neck down
my back, pulsing in my left buttock, when a beam of light clears the nearby woods and nearly blinds me. It is in this second that I decide.
The ball slices into the woods bordering the Clearwater River. Toffee coloured in Spring run-off, the water winds its way down the valley bottom merging into the mighty
Athabasca. I like to think about the early traders paddling the water highways. Back when men were real men—tough and of few words. Myron snorts and I shrug, trying hard to look upset. “You go on, take the cart and my clubs, I’m done for the day. I’ll catch up.” “Ahhh, leave it. Ain’t worth looking for.” 9
northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
“No really, it’s my lucky ball. My last one.” I lie, knowing
doe-eyed rabbit to me. Shouldn’t they be pink or black?
them to me for Christmas. She’d said I should try golfing,
eyes are kohl rimmed, surrounding golden explosions
there is a six pack of virgin balls in my bag. Mindy gave
it would be fun. I didn’t know then that she planned on
foisting her granddad on me. “Just not my day, I guess. Really, you take the cart and I’ll catch up. Hey, order me a beer at the clubhouse, okay?”
At the mention of beer, Myron’s eyes lighten. “Yep, if you’d listened to me…” fades over my left shoulder. Why didn’t I think of this earlier? In the void left by his
absence I hear a magpie’s strident call, and behind that another bird, a robin maybe, trills. The faint hum of tires on the bridge. I hear grass blades lengthening.
Following the trajectory of the ball, I push through the
underbrush as spindly shrubs thorn my pant legs and willows snap at my bare arms. Scratching through a patch of raspberry canes, I discover what I surmise is a game trail, a slight compression of moss, a few oval
droppings here and there, sort of plump raisins. Try to remember my Boy Scout days, but they are fuzzy. Not sure if they are deer or rabbit offerings, never been much
for the woods and not overly fond of animals either. They
make me nervous; never know what they’re going to do. The trail widens slightly as I enter an opening between the trees. Backlit in the sun is a large white rabbit, ears
glowing from a network of capillaries lodged under thin
skin. It’s not a wild rabbit camouflaged in grey-brown, and the ears are too long, too delicate. Some irresponsi-
ble person has dumped their pet, tired of looking after
it or maybe they moved and couldn’t take it with them. Doesn’t matter why, I’m suddenly annoyed. Given its stark whiteness, a coyote or wolf will take it out. Or
maybe an eagle. Eagles this far north? There were defi-
nitely those soot-black pterodactyls otherwise known as ravens. Do ravens take out live game or simply feast off
the dead? I’ll have to ask Myron, he knows about this shit. I’m wondering about wolves this close to town when
the rabbit moves towards me. Hops a few feet, then stops. Nibbles and looks sideways at me. There is something feral about the eyes. They don’t look quite like a 10
Shouldn’t they be friendly? In the afternoon light the
dotted with currant-black pupils so dark and oily they
look like where the bitumen weeps in areas on the banks of the Clearwater. They are trying to tell me something
ancient, something I have forgotten. My neck prickles, but I shrug off the feeling. Reason tells me I have no need to fear a rabbit.
The rabbit continues towards me as if asking to be
picked up. Not a chance, probably flea ridden. I put my
hands in my pockets and think about kicking it away. Well, not really kicking, more nudging it. Even closer, the creature sits up on its haunches, almost begging. When
I focus on the soft white belly fur, something unnamed draws my hands free and I reach down, stopping short as the eyes flare.
Up closer it’s bigger. Must be the stippled shadows from the trees.
A glance at my watch reveals that I’m going to be late,
again, and I’m not sure Mindy will be so understanding—even with my great rabbit story. It could be couch
surfing for me, and I’ve been doing far too much of that lately. Time to forget about the ball, the rabbit, and
hightail it back to the clubhouse. Myron’s probably won-
dering where I am. Maybe I can squeeze in a beer or two, blame the lateness on the old man.
The rabbit hops away, halts and looks back. Something
in the eyes pulls at me; I can’t resist and slowly step for-
ward. It hops a few more feet, stopping to look coyly at me. We continue this dance until the sound of the river
playing with the stones penetrates my consciousness. There is a slight depression in the ground, maybe the
size of a kid’s plastic wading pool, and the rabbit stops on the far side. Looking down, I start to laugh; the space is full of golf balls, some gleaming white, others discoloured and moss covered. An image of the rabbit, in the
dusk, after the last golfer has retreated to the clubhouse, hunting down the lost balls and nosing them to this
place makes me want to giggle. But I don’t, cause real
men don’t giggle. I blink. Sticks poke through the cache,
volume 2 | issue 6
but when I narrow my eyes it’s not sticks—it’s bones. The flare of the rounded ends gives them away. My eyes dart, disbelieving until they rest on the curve of a skull, a
golf ball nestled in each empty eye socket. I don’t know what to think.
I look up at the rabbit, then back to the nest, and then I
look slightly sideways at the rabbit again -- sort of out of the corner of my eye. It’s a trick I learned. When under-
standing eludes me, if I look at things sideways, gaining
a different perspective, they usually become clearer. The
rabbit is now the size of a large dog. The creature curves its mouth into a knowing smile displaying discoloured
canines. A pink tongue hangs between sharp rows of
teeth. This is no herbivore. The body is still a dog-sized rabbit, but there is no mistaking the head of a wolf. I can’t look, and as my eyes dart, dozens of amber eyes float in the woods behind the creature. It pants: I panic. It’s one of those long moments where time stretches yet
stays still; a brief portal into another dimension while I try to grasp what has happened--what is going to happen. Images collide, tumble and tangle like clothes
in a dryer. I think about Mindy, all things I love about her, dreams I haven’t made time to realize. I think about
kids I don’t have, but mean to one day when the time is
right. I think about the drinking and partying, the drugs. I think about flesh ripping, bones crunching, snapping. I think about…
A crashing in the bushes behind me fractures the long
moment. I don’t know where to turn, what path to take: what I know in front of me, but can’t comprehend, or the
He swings the nine iron up, the shaft flashes in the light as the club comes down on the creature. “Not this time, ya bastard.” I stare at him, opened mouthed with that deer-in-the-
headlights kind of look. I turn and look at the rabbit, or what’s left of it, smashed into the ground. A small
mound of crimson flecked fur. I risk a glance into the surrounding trees, not one golden floating orb. I look into
the nest, oddly thankful the balls are still there—the bones are not.
“Yeah, you saw it. And don’t ever forget it. And don’t ever speak of it neither.”
Myron wipes the club head in the moss, his voice once again flat.
“Lost my good buddy, Albert, years ago. He took the
wrong path. Lost his way, nobody never saw him again. I tried to save him.”
Myron looks at me, questions held in check, eyes prob-
ing. I don’t know where to start, what to say. There’s not
enough spit left in my mouth to form words anyway, so I shrug.
“Ya know what Miskanaw means don’t ya?” “No,” I manage to croak. “It’s Cree for pathfinder.” He looks at me, trying to gauge
where I’m at. “Ya know no one can set a man’s path,
something he has to do himself. And let me tell ya, buddy, it’s up to you whether it’s a short path or a long one.”
unknown behind me. Fight or flight kicks in and I choose
I still don’t know where I’m at. Unable to absorb the
tone jumping up and down like a rock concert groupie
matter it even happened. But the fur on the ground
flight. Before I can turn, I hear Myron cursing, his monoon speed. Who knew he had it in him? He machetes his nine iron through the air and stops next to me, panting. “Bloody bushes…what in hell are ya doing?” “Oh, you,” he hisses.
vision and I’m not sure that’s what it was, or for that
gives testament that it did. I know the answers hover just beyond reach. I need processing time.
Myron breaks the silence, “Anyways, let’s go get that beer. Hey, grab a few balls, the squirrels must’ve collected them up.”
11
northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
kindred spirits sherry duncan
Across the street from my childhood home - a large brick school stands alone surrounded by a fence On this particular occasion I sat on the front step to peer across the asphalt I hear a ringing bell Children emerge from the doors to explore the playground surrounded by metal posts children like me and un-like me Same yet different girls and boys each with 10 fingers, 2 eyes, one nose smiling, running, laughing, playing, marveling, wondering a steel linked fence playground swings move back and forth the metal fence— tall—towering above my 7 year old self I sit on my front steps where I am safe—separate—solitary— Seeing two little girls—just like me holding hands—running through the field Same—yet different fenced in their eyes slanted—noses broad—foreheads wide—and large tongues cautiously they approach the edge of the school yard nearest me sharp spiky steel barbs locked gate I notice from my side of the fence - the safe side
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volume 2 | issue 6
“girl, come here girl” they motion for me to venture to their side of the street I am intrigued and move to the edge of the freshly mowed front lawn a knee high white picket fence lined with tulips borders my yard They smile “girl, come here” and I am encouraged to begin venturing closer to the cement sidewalk, across the pavement to the edge of the curb on the other side I glance back cautiously to the safety behind me but with a new feeling of conviction advance forward— ever mindful that the fence keeps me safe from “those children” reaching out, their fingers poking through the cold steel soft pudgy fingers pushing wild purple petals—crocuses pushed through the fence and then in slow motion purple petals falling to the ground
one small gesture and the barriers are eliminated—forever 3 children—fingers touch for a moment through the steel wires kindred spirits—unforeseen revelations
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
window waiting
dawn booth
During the holidays, I would sit and wait by the front window to see you pulling up in your truck.
It took miles and hours for you to get to us. The roads must have been terrible.
But you still made the trip, with no shown fuss. I was just a little girl.
And then, you were still so young.
Much time has passed since those days of sitting and waiting.
Confused and worried with wonder… if you’d soon, again, appear. I was more mature, the year that you stopped coming. And more time went by.
When graduation day came.
I thought you might drop in.
I was sending you letters and stories I’d written. When you didn’t come to see me.
I thought my letters may have been lost.
Mom and dad said it was probably an expensive cost. After graduation, I drove for miles and hours on that same road you use to trek.
But it wasn’t to come and see you. Photo Credit: Dawn Booth
I’m growing up now, you see.
And several years have passed, since you last spoke with me.
I’m moving to your city, to become someone I’ve always wanted to be. I told you in another letter, but I think it may have been misplaced.
I’m attending college, just down your street now and feel lost in space. I wish I could come see you, but too many years have been disgraced. It’s many moons later and I moved across the country. I’m a wife and mother now, Grandma.
And your great-grandchildren are growing older. They are looking out our window.
Anxiously waiting, I let them stay. Because it takes me back… To our last Christmas day.
14
volume 2 | issue 6
the wilderness bewilderment kevin thornton
When the Poet Robert Service used to write of cold and nervous people in the north who feared the Eskimo,
he would tell them “Common sense is key, they rarely take offense. You see, it’s tough in winter, hunting’s rather slow.” And though there’s not a lot of crime (because they hardly have the time) there is some, as it is easy to intuit. For there’s a cool PI up north who we’ll talk about henceforth. He’s called Sams Padé, the Holmes of the Inuit.
It was nearing minus forty. She walked in she looked so haughty, which is hard to do in mukluks and cagoule.
As the doorway’s really low she bent double through the snow, squeezing past the blocks he’d used for his igloo “You're a frosty Dick I hear, prone to quit and disappear, I have heard you’re also dumb, or is that dumber
than an Arctic penguin herder? Still, investigate my murder; it is due before your office melts this summer”. “I don’t give up or abscond,” Sams said to the shapely blonde. “Tell me why you think it’s likely that you’ll die?” “I have hired my own killer. I was writing my first thriller and my research has completely gone awry.”
“So you came up here to hide?” “That’s what happened,” she replied. “But my hunter’s also here in Tuktoyaktuk.
And I arrived with such a rumpus, that he hardly needs a compass, it’s like somebody has magnetized my Mukluks”. “That’s not possible,” said Sams, “for that’s fur upon your gams. There’s no metal in your Eskimoic boots.
But if your hunter has an aide,that makes it harder I'm afraid. If there's two of them they're working in cahoots.” "Too late," she cried, he saw her totter, he reached out and as he caught her she said, “At least my book will debut number one.”
“It will not”, Padéreplied, “It’s no mystery how you died. You faked it in a complicated con.” So hesearched for cyanide, in her pockets and the hide, and he pondered why she’d travelled North do it. For it was clearly suicide, (the burnt almond smell beside), but why in this cold land of the Inuit?
She left a note, ‘said she was dying, no hope left and no denying. “One last hurrah,” she said, " before things goto hell. I willhonour G reat-Grandmother, who was famously none other than the famous northern belle, Eskimo Nell."
15
northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
surprising kiran malik-khan
Concentric—
Some people are destined to never meet passing each other daily—
some harbingers, some victims of inflated egos Egos are self-constructed obstacles obstacles to happiness obstacles to reasoning
Yet, when the circumventing stops eventually the dizzying death of it all is surprising Why? Where was the element of surprise in this one act play? Why is coming full circle a shock? Concentric— Some people are meant to never meet
wood buffalo winterland surprise dave martin
Do you remember that day in December When a crew of Woodland Caribou flew
Through and through the Birchwood Trails, Made surprised skiers flounder and flail?
What can you do when these protected species Do as they please? It’s a fine how do you do!
A baker’s dozen of caribou are coming through, “Hey Drew! Ditch yer snowshoes!”
A guy in an orange lid was at his wit’s end
When 2, 4, 6, 8, 10, 12, 13 caribou came round the bend; Up-sot a whole lot of Birkebeiners, Snow-drifters And surprised snowshoe grinders.
What can you do when these protected species Do as they please? It’s a fine how do you do.
A baker’s dozen of caribou are coming through “Hey Sue! Ditch yer ski-doo!”
What can you do when these protected species Do as they please? It’s a fine how do you do.
A baker’s dozen of caribou are coming through, “Hey Jules! Look out behind you!
There’s Woodland Caribou coming through.” 16
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
marginalia
Surprised By Time
A column by douglas abel
time passes, and things change. Why should we be surprised when it does, and they do?
My wife, Elizabeth, and I lived in London, England, over forty years ago; I was an acting student, she was a teacher. We had not been back in over thirty
years. When we returned to London in September, 2013, we expected to find that much had changed. Instead, we were surprised—and delighted—by how much was familiar.
Certainly there were striking alterations: the steel circle of the London Eye on the south bank of the Thames, the gleaming new skyscrapers affectionately
dubbed by Londoners “the Gherkin” and “the Shard,” the sterile upthrusting of the Canary Wharf towers from once-shabby docklands. And yet, in the
joyous jumble of styles and periods that creates the London skyline, the new seemed to fit with the old.
We felt at home as we wandered through South Kensington, where we had spent our first six weeks in a student hotel all those years ago. The Tube station
was still deceptively complex. The nearby shops and restaurants had changed
their names, but not their “local” character. In Onslow Gardens, where the hotel had been, white-painted four-story terrace houses still surrounded the
green, tree-filled square we had crossed on our way to and from work or school in the autumn of 1972. South Kensington was a place we still knew.
At the Tower of London and Westminster Abbey, the tours had been upgraded, but the solid splendour of the monumental buildings still delighted us. Covent Garden market was the familiar, tawdry jumble it had been post-
Beatles; only the slogans on the souvenir t-shirts had been updated. The shops of New Bond Street were still understatedly opulent, the foreign clien-
tele still ostentatiously well off. The theatre district around Leicester Square still teemed with tourists, ticket hustlers and dramatic promise.
Everything was familiar and unsurprising, almost comfortable. Until I went back to visit Ealing.
This west London suburb was the place where we had settled for a year and a half to work and learn. Our first flat was on Grange Road, only steps from
my school, our second in Woodville Gardens, about fifteen minutes away. We cooked, shopped, slept, dreamed and loved in Ealing, met friends and
drank pints there, planned from there our excursions to the rest of the city, to the rest of England, to Paris and Amsterdam. In Ealing we were London-
ers, however temporarily. We had put down young roots on its streets; surely something from those roots should cling there now.
18
volume 2 | issue 6
So I thought, as I made the journey on the Central Line to
street was somehow narrower, definitely busier, parked
to bring back all the memories—sometimes sweet,
really been quiet, almost serene, when I hurried to morn-
Ealing Broadway Station. I was going alone, determined
sometimes not—of my months as an acting student, in the suburbs of the greatest theatre city in the world.
I came out of the tube station, and stopped in my tracks. If I had not “known” where I was, I would have had no idea where I was.
The green common opposite the station was where it
had been, but it was not at all what it had been. Where
were the supermarket, the off-license, the newsagent, the dry cleaner’s? I made my way to Woodville Gardens, a route I had taken hundreds of times—and needed
my London Street Guide to navigate. I couldn’t recall
the number of the house, but surely I must recognize
it. I walked the length of Woodville Gardens, both ways, twice. A few places might have been where we had lived; not one of them declared that it was our “home.”
I made my way back past the station and toward the
school, still needing my map to find a route I had fol-
lowed twice a day, five days a week, for almost a year. Around me there was twice as much traffic, three times as many people, new shopping arcades with name-
brand stores that simply had not been there—even though they looked similar to the ones that had been
there. The architecture was deceptively familiar, but there was somehow so much more of it, in all the wrong
places. What and where were the right places? There
was a neo-gothic church tower. Was it familiar? Had I taken a photograph of it, with clouds racing behind it? Why was it no longer a reliable landmark?
My school was where it had been, right at the corner of
Grange Road. More than forty years had made it look more prosperous, but it was my school. Our first Ealing
apartment, in the refurbished three-story, red-brick house was just down the road, on the north side.
Except that it wasn’t. New—since 1972—square, fourstory apartment blocks had replaced the house, had
replaced all the houses on that side of the street. The
cars crammed along the sidewalk. Had Grange Road ing classes all those years ago?
I took a final, sad walk down South Ealing Road, to the other Underground Station, the one we had used when we first came “west” from South Kensington. There were
half a dozen pubs that looked “old” but were unfamiliar. The film studio and the comprehensive school I passed had been there when we lived in Ealing. The big commu-
nity college office had not. The road seemed much longer, with more twists, turns and intersections. I needed the
map to reassure myself that I was headed the right way. Finally, there it was, the South Ealing tube station. On the wrong side of the road. I knew, I could feel physically, how I used to turn right out of the station to walk up to the school. But there was
the station, just as small and old as it had been then, insisting that I must have turned left. I entered, expect-
ing nothing familiar, finding nothing, and caught a train to take me back to our hotel. And away from a past that had ceased to exist.
As I sat quietly, and sadly, in the train, my initial shock
at the changes in our old “neighbourhood” was replaced
by a deeper surprise. How could I have expected things to be the same as they were over forty years ago? The
almost rural Toronto suburb I grew up in is now bigger
than most Canadian cities, all high rises and glass and hundred-store malls and congestion. My first house in another Toronto suburb is gone, the orchard behind it
cut down and developed decades ago, my first school rebuilt and renamed. Change happens. To be surprised by it is naïve.
And yet, as I sat in the train back to Kensington, I longed
for a place that no longer existed, except in my memory. A private, past little world. And I was finally surprised by how strongly, if unconsciously, I had clung to what that world had been.
19
northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
contributors
kiran malik-khan is the Director of Stakeholder Relations
douglas abel is a writer, actor, director, and novice digital
nalist, poet, and social media consultant. She contributes to
documentary maker. He recently passed the fifth-year mark of
many local print media outlets, and loves telling commu-
living in Vancouver—but has not yet become nostalgic.
nity stories. Fort McMurray has been her home for over 14
jenny berube was born someplace else and hence, lives in Fort
years. You can follow Kiran on Twitter via @KiranMK0822.
McMurray by choice. She has two dogs, two children, and one
A Canadian citizen since '86, dave martin and his family
husband. She has been writing her whole life (shortly after
moved to Alberta from Thatcher's England, when many
writing was invented), and she loves helping society flourish
collieries, steel works, and potash mines were shut. Dave
and grow. She is looking forward to all the great opportunities
currently lives, writes and plays in Fort McMurray, Alberta
here, and she is grateful for all the kindness, support, and hard
and is the Local Co-ordinator for the Legacy Children's Foun-
work of the artist community here.
dation: Gift of Music Wood Buffalo Initiative. Gift of Music is
dawn booth is a local journalist and business owner of the communication service, Media Booth. Residing in Fort
a collaborative entity that assists children to stay in school using the music arts.
McMurray for the past seven years, Booth has been actively
erin stinson is an artist of many genres, calling Fort
working in the Wood Buffalo region as a media expert.
McMurray home for over a decade. Visual arts, including
From her arrival to the city, until November 2010, she
photography and painting, songwriting, and the written
worked as the Special Features Editor at the Fort McMur-
word are all creative outlets for what inspires her. That
ray Today. In April 2011, she co-launched snapd Wood Buffalo
inspiration comes from observing and reflecting on the
and managed the publication for three years, until June 2014.
world around her with a faith-based perspective.
In March 2014, she created Media Booth and is currently working with a wide-variety of clients in the business and non-profit sectors throughout Alberta. Her passion for volunteering in the community has given her two civic awards from the Regional Municipality of Wood Buffalo and she has also received the title for the Fort McMurray Connect's Top 40 Under 40. A wife and mother to two young boys and a baby girl, Booth can be found easily at www.mediabooth.net sherry duncan—mother, grandmother, wife, sister, advocate, actress, author, community member, artist, writer, volunteer, teacher, presenter, friend. She is a lover of life and all things camping, learning, family, children and her two dogs. A lifelong educator, Sherry is currently an instructor at Keyano College in Childhood Studies.
kevin thornton is a writer by profession and a poet by mood swing. He is a five-time finalist in the Arthurs, the Crime Writers of Canada awards, and has short stories appearing in two collections this year. His ponderings may be found at theoldfortamusingfromtheoilsands.blogspot.ca and at facebook.com/kevin.thornton.165. He lives in Fort McMurray and is quite content with his lot. Raised in a squatter’s shack perched on pilings above the chilled waters of Burrard Inlet, cathy yard learned early to forage in the forests and can be spotted chewing questionable leaves and bark even today. She fled Vancouver at the age of 17, swallowed by the remoteness of the Cariboo where she continued to live rough on the land. Migrating northward to Fort St. John and various points in between forty years later
veronica ephgrave, who wrote most of her submissions
she settled in the temperate Cowichan Valley on Southern
during uneventful usher shifts at a theatre, struggles to write
Vancouver Island, only to be uprooted and once again on an
at any time other than third/fourth block spares and the une-
adventure to northern Alberta where she currently resides.
ventful shifts mentioned above. She’s been writing for a long
Cathy’s stories can be found in several literary magazines and
time and is pursuing a career in writing.
anthologies including Canadian Stories, Island Writer, Verse
candice felker is a 28-year-old female from BC who is traveling and working around the world. She is passionate about 20
at the United Way of Fort McMurray. She's a freelance jour-
the written word.
and Vision, and Portal.
it will happen to you candice felker
northern canada
collective society for writers statement of purpose: To publish and support the work of writers in northern Canada.
Psychological state.
Pleasant, unpleasant. Positive, negative Flight or fight.
Muscle tension.
Shout, scream, gasp! It pops outta nowhere,
Unexpected, sharp like a gun.
Information sometimes critical, Good or bad, but never none. Heart races,
Breathing quickens. Questions surface, Plot thickens. Joyful jumps
Or volcanic tears. Ocean of relief,
Or tornado of fears. Sooner or later,
This will happen to you. You won't be ready,
There’s nothing you can do.
call for submissions NorthWord Volume 3, Issue 1 will be published in 2015. deadline April 7, 2015 theme #GameOn We’re always looking for prose (2000 words or fewer, fiction or nonfiction), poetry (50 lines maximum), excerpts
from current projects, and visual art. please submit as a microsoft word or image attachment to: The Editors,
northword@hushmail.com for advertising and business inquiries, contact northwordmagazine@gmail.com